I recently enrolled Rumi in puppy training. I did a bit of research and chose a local facility. Good price. Great reviews. What could possibly go wrong?

A lot.

Class #1

Driving to our first class, I had high hopes. Rumi would make new friends, wear himself out and sleep for the rest of the evening. I would feel great about my little investment.

Nope.

Rumi, over-stimulated by a blood-red sun beating down upon us, and the sight and sounds of other rambunctious pups, discovered that he LOVED emitting his high-pitched bark whilst doing goat leaps in the air.

I think his inner dialogue went something like this:

• Holy Moly, I truly am the Universe in Ecstatic Motion! Look at me GO!
• Perhaps this isn’t the best idea, and I get the feeling my human is embarrassed, but…
• My God this feels great! Time for another goat pounce and happy yap yap yip yip fart nip!

We limped through the first class but truly, he did okay. The other participants were sweet little pups, their owners kind and patient.

As we pulled into the driveway, Dave was waiting at the front door.

“How did it go?”, he yelled, expectant smile plastered on his face.

“How fast can you pour?”

Half-way to heatstroke, Rumi buried his head in the air vent while I buried mine in a glass of cold wine.

Class #2

Over the next week, I diligently completed our homework. My 4 month old pup was coming along nicely. Or so I thought.

Our second class took a strange turn.

Our instructor was having a bad day. I sensed it the moment I entered the ring. So did Rumi because goat pounces became higher, yip-yaps louder.

As a teacher, I can empathize. We all have bad days and instructing a group takes even more purposeful effort at such times.

But there were only 4 pups and 4 conscientious dog owners present.

Instructions were belted out and we all struggled to decipher what to do. Apparently Rumi and I struggled the most and we became the model of what not to do. Weren’t we all supposed to be practicing goat leaps and happy yip-yaps?

As the instructor took the leash from me, warning bells bleeped inside my head. I did not take the necessary pause to let this feeling percolate. Instead, I meekly handed over the leash.

The trainer demonstrated the necessary skill and the crack cocaine treats being fed to Rumi caused him to go a bit nuts. He jumping up, trying to get more out of the instructor’s hand. These were obviously not his usual treats; he cannot handle freeze-dried liver just yet, and I suspect the proffered treats contained just that.

“Oh you spoiled brat!”, the trainer yelled. “I will now put him into a submissive position until he has gained control of his emotions”, and proceeded to do just that, between her legs, holding firmly onto his collar and pushing down while Rumi struggled violently and then finally acquiesced.

“There! Now you get the treat, you hyper boy!”, the trainer exclaimed victoriously.

Shocked, I froze. What was happening? Mind confused, body sick for my little guy, I rationalized the adult’s behavior: this was a professional – this must be the correct way to handle a dog, right? I must be reacting this strongly because I am embarrassed, right?

I tried, and failed, to make eye contact with the other participants.

Our class continued as did the sick feeling in my stomach. I was useless and unable to follow the instructions. Apparently I could not walk my dog on a leash either.

Once again, the trainer took over, successfully walking Rumi on his leash while offering the crack-laced treats.

“Well he can do it after all! See! You have to be the most interesting person IN THE WORLD for your dog to listen to you! You have to be a party! I shouldn’t be the most interesting person – YOU should be!” Yeesh. One second I am being told to be super calm with my hyper dog, and the next being instructed to be a constant party.

Demoralized and exhausted, we drove home. Rumi collapsed in the backyard and I whimpered into a cold brew.

What is This Really About?

As the week progressed, I struggled to rationalize what occurred. I am no stranger to adversity or strong personalities, but this was something else. I wondered if I was being overly sensitive. Maybe this was just the world of puppy training. Maybe you had to be cruel to be kind. Maybe I was just a softy, letting Rumi walk all over me.

Maybe the instructor was correct. Maybe he was a spoiled, hyper brat and I was too blind to see it.

Bullshit.

I know my pup. I know him a hell of a lot better than the trainer. I work with him daily, and have done so since our first day together.

Yes, he gets hyper and can go from 0-100. Yes, he can be annoying and frustrating. He is a pup learning how to navigate and behave in the human world.

He did not deserve the treatment he received and neither did I. If a student leaves your class with their tail between the legs, feeling horrid about their abilities and demoralized, then that is a colossal fail for the teacher.

But what has bothered me even more is my own inability to respond in the moment. My intuition was sounding alarms and I didn’t listen. Instead, I paid attention to a familiar demon that came bounding down my path:

What is wrong with you! The trainer knows better than you! They are a professional, and you are being ridiculous in feeling anything is wrong. Stop being so sensitive. If you complain, you will be viewed as a ‘karen’ with pampered poodle.

“Why are you being so hard on yourself?”, Dave finally asked. “The instructor is nuts. Leave it at that.”

I couldn’t. My personal demon called to mind instances, professionally and personally, I did not speak up against that which made my heart sick, choosing instead to rationalize what I saw or heard. I remembered situations I long thought dealt with. I grappled with personal weakness and my inability to take the leash from the aggressive trainer’s hand with a simple, “No, he will not be used to prove your egotistical, misguided point. Back off.”

These awakened dredges of things long thought buried were the last thing I expected from puppy training. Although painful and unpleasant, I am not sorry this happened. Sometimes demons exist to push and prod our diplomatic, fence-sitting selves until anger rises and we speak out against that which we must.

Even something as simple as puppy training classes.

Dear Trainer,

We will not be returning to your class. However, I want to thank you for making my spine a little stronger, my being a little wiser, my heart a little bigger. Thank you for causing some shit from my past to rise up. I needed to step up and deal with it.

BTW, Rumi is recovering from your cocaine treats after a 48 hour withdrawal period. He suggests you yell less at people and laugh more at the crazy antics of little pups. After all, youth and its precious exuberance is a fleeting treasure.